


i would give all this (and heaven too)

by chocobos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, M/M, Sad and Angry that's Dean, idek, non-linear timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocobos/pseuds/chocobos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has never needed anything as much as he's needed Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i would give all this (and heaven too)

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a new work or anything. I wrote it a year ago (so it's pretty old) but I've decided to archive all of my old supernatural fics here--half in an attempt to bring me to be able to cherish/write for this fandom again and half in an attempt to try to force a bit of organization on me.
> 
> Just a warning, this was written around That Episode, you know, 7.01/7.02 so there's a shit-ton of angst ahead, just a warning.
> 
> This is probably pretty horrible. I apologize. Also, I apologize for clogging up the Dean/Cas tags like I'm going to for the next couple of hours.

Castiel looks over at Dean, a quiet look of confusion coloring his features. “Why are we doing this?” He asks.

  
   
Dean shrugs, grabs the vodka bottle from Sam’s fingers, and takes a long, calculated slurp. “Why not?”

  
  
Dean’s never been good at paying attention to boundaries. Unsurprisingly, this includes trying to corrupt the nerdy angel that has somehow become a friend to him–if he’s willing to look closer, which he isn’t, he’d be able to admit that Castiel isn’t just a friend, that their relationship (no matter how confusing and inhumane it actually is) somehow runs deeper than something strictly platonic. But he doesn’t, because he’s never been able to and he’s not about to start now.

  
Intense azure-blue eyes stare into the planes of Dean’s face, tracing the anguish and the pain, outlining every emotion that passes, no matter how fleeting or permanent it is. He doesn’t squirm under the attention because he learned quickly that it annoyed Castiel, made him feel out of place and uncomfortable, and somehow Dean’s become sensitive to that and tries to avoid it. There’s something unnerving about watching an angel play so distinctly with the emotions running through his head–ones that he isn’t even supposed to have.  
  
“Alright,” Castiel shrugs, not thinking too much into it because this is Dean, and he’s always had too much faith in him, even from the beginning.  
  
Dean’s told him countless time how much of a mistake that is, to trust someone who’s seen so much. Dean’s manipulative and he’s selfish; it’s not honorable to get stuck in that kind of fire. This is the one time where it would be acceptable for Cas to back down, to find someone else to spill his faith into. But Cas refuses to listen and eventually Dean gives up trying.  
  
Dean smiles, slow and predatory, and passes the bottle to Cas.  
  
He downs the rest of it in one go.  
  
“Asshole,” Dean sighs, but it’s affectionate and fond, and it’s laced with more emotion than Dean has showed in months.

*

  
  
It happens on a Thursday.  
  
It happens on a Thursday three weeks after Castiel’s killed by the Leviathans. He goes to sleep with liquor running wild through his veins, pumping through his body like runny, contaminated blood–he’s ingested enough of the stuff in the last few weeks that it would almost make sense that his blood has a constant alcohol level above the national limit. It’s been like this for weeks. Every time the creeping suspicion of emotion starts to make it’s attack on Dean, he reaches for the bottle and hugs it close, drinks from the neck and savors the sour, bitter taste.  
  
It’s his saving grace, the reason why he doesn’t go completely off the tracks. Alcohol is there for him in a way that Sammy can’t be, in the way that Bobby can’t be either. Whether this is because they don’t know how or because Dean isn’t willing to let them try, he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t dote on the past and instead let’s the harsh notes of whiskey take him away.  
  
Dean doesn’t feel anything because the booze blocks everything from him. It blocks the memories and the pain, it blocks reality and all of it’s demons; how Castiel isn’t coming back this time. Dean, in his own twisted way, had morphed Castiel into some type of being that hadn’t been able to die.  
  
He wakes up on Thursday and ignores the hangover pumping poison in his brain. His headache pounds likes rabbits fucking on the walls of his skull, but he ignores it as best as he can and beelines for the shower.  
  
He doesn’t look in the mirror, he never really does anymore; he’s learned to hate what he sees and it’s better to ignore and pretend then it is to face and fight.

Dean’s as much of a coward as he is confrontational, but no one needs to know that.

  
Sometimes, he thinks Cas was the only one that was able to tell, that looked hard enough to see.

He peels the shirt off slowly, fingers gentle on the hem of his shirt. Just a few days before he’d gotten into a pretty rough battle with a couple of witches that were causing havoc on a town a few hundred miles away from Bobby’s salvage yard. It ended in shed blood and jaundiced skin; broken spells and too much pain.  
  
Dean and Sam walked away with injuries that usually didn’t mean much because Cas could’ve easily healed them. But now, well, that’s just something he has to live with. Like the fact that Cas is gone and isn’t coming back–this he’s sure of; he’s positive of it this time. It’s been weeks and they’ve seen no sign of Cas, not even a small glimmer of hope shines.  
  
Dean has learned that hope is useless; he doesn’t dance with it anymore.  
  
Once the shirt is off and discarded on the floor, the breath is stolen right from him.  
  
“That’s not right,” he mumbles, to no one in particular; not even himself.  
  
The sight in the mirror punches every single emotion right out of him and leaves him dry and empty. The mark that colored his shoulder is suddenly gone, the mark that he’s gotten used to for years isn’t there anymore and Dean doesn’t know whether to cry from how it’s caught him off guard or drink to cease him from feeling at all.

*

  
  
Almost a year after Castiel pulls him out of the pit, Cas starts visiting him.  
  
It happens at random, especially at first. Castiel pops up when Dean is working through the midnight research on a routine job, when Dean is pressed between the sheets with a bottle of Jack and a bacon cheeseburger, when Dean’s watching Dr. Sexy on TV and Sam isn’t anywhere to be found–fucking off with his computer and too much coffee; an escape. Castiel visits and sometimes he talks and other times he just sits and listens.  
  
Dean rarely says anything, even on the worst nights. There’s always been something about the angel that makes Dean want to tell him everything, from the burning pain riding in his chest all of the time, to how strong his desire is to prove himself to his deceased deadbeat father. Every little fragment of insignificance to every huge scrap that has shaped the shell of Dean; he wants to tell. He’s never been a storyteller, but then again he’s never met someone like Cas. And the thing is, that Cas would listen, he knows that he would because Castiel has always been willing to take whatever Dean is willing to give, no matter if it’s a sliver of nothing or a piece of everything. Cas takes and he gives and he doesn’t expect anything in return.  
  
For a such a righteous creature, Dean learned early on that Cas was pretty selfless, too.  
  
One night, Castiel comes and he’s bloody, covered in scratches that are angry and pink and bruises that are just the wrong side of painful. Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and he quickly rushes to his side.  
  
Cas always comes when Sam is away, and he’s never really understood why.  
  
“Cas, Cas, man, are you alright?” Dean asks, not paying attention to the concern and unmasked panic that’s creeping into his voice. If he doesn’t acknowledge it then it’s not there, because he knows Cas won’t say anything about it either, especially in his condition.  
  
“I am fine, Dean,” Castiel replies, though the pinch of pain around his eyes says differently.  
  
“Dude, no you’re not,” Dean says, and then looks at him, honestly looks.  
  
Cas looks tired, not just tired, but absolutely exhausted, like he’s had enough with life and all of it’s trials and just wants to give up–or give in completely. His shoulders are slumped, but that might be from what looks like a dislocated shoulder, and his fingers are trembling at his side in a way that Dean’s never seen on him before. He’s looking at Dean, intensely, always so intense, like he’s waiting for Dean to crumble into pieces, unable to support what he’s been carrying around. It’s unnerving, and unsettling, but comforting in a way that makes his bones chilled only when Castiel’s near.  
  
“Can’t you use your angel mojo and fix yourself up?” Dean asks, even though he already knows the answer.  
  
Cas levels him with a stare that spells out ‘you’re smarter than this, Dean’, and gestures in a way that spells out ‘I would not be here if that were the case’. “Don’t ask stupid questions,”  
  
The edges of his mouth quirk in a grimace-half smile, because it’s just so very Cas to say something like that. He’s become alarmingly predictable lately.  
  
Dean’s not sure if he likes this or not.  
  
“I’m going to fix you up,” Dean says. The hospital is out of the question, especially when Raphael is out looking for them and Dean doesn’t want to chance it.  
  
“You don’t have to do that Dean,” Castiel protests, but the protest isn’t as strong as it usually is and it doesn’t take a genius to read between the lines and figure out that Castiel would never outright ask for help for something like this. He’s been able to heal himself virtually the entire time he’s been in his vessel, and the sudden realization that he’s not able to do it anymore probably strikes him harder than he’s letting on.  
  
“I do,” he says, “you’ve fixed me up more times than I deserve. S’about time I return the favor.”  
  
The soft light of the moon illuminates the profile of Cas’ face, leaving his features subtle and brilliant in the dimness of the seedy motel room. Dean tries not to focus on that, or of the feeling of something sinking in his stomach, but it’s almost impossible to ignore how very breathtaking Castiel actually is. And it’s not because of his vessel, Jimmy, but rather because Cas shines through every single pore on Jimmy’s face, the light never fading. Cas is as much of Jimmy as Jimmy is a part of himself, and Dean can’t help but find that beautiful.  
  
Dean’s never considered Cas beautiful, has never really thought of him in those terms–or any guy for that matter–but he can’t help but believe it to be true. He’s the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen, and it might have took him some time to realize that, but he’s always been a better-late-than-never sort of guy.

*

  
  
The mark’s one of those things that Dean just got used to seeing, like Sammy’s pinched up face when Dean makes a mistake–which happens far more often these days then it ever really used to; Dean refuses to analyze it, because that’s neither here nor there–or the empty liquor bottles littering Bobby’s house after a rather trying hunt. It was commonplace and he took advantage of it because it he thought it would be there continuously, just like Cas.  
  
But if Cas was able to disappear completely, then Dean guesses anything else could, too.  
  
It’s almost surreal to look in the mirror now and not see anything on his left shoulder, to see bare, unscathed skin, littered with freckles and birthmarks, not with Castiel’s handprint that had grown to be a part of him, too.  
  
Dean reaches for the drink because he always reaches for the drink, it’s his safe place and once he’s comfortable somewhere, that’s usually where he stays. Dean’s a creature of habit when the situation affords him to be one, and when it comes to deal with Cas, with dealing with loss, it’s the only thing that Dean knows, so he takes, and takes, and sinks into the heavy-clouded pleasure that only alcohol can bring.

*

  
Dean’s lost a lot, has been losing things without gain since he was a mere child, wrapped in the false security of a mother that was stolen of breath too soon. He’s lost himself and his family members, his friends, and his sanity, but he knows the worst thing he’s ever lost, will ever lose, is Castiel.  
  
Castiel, the angel boy with the fluffy black wings, who protected and gave for the picture of a better humanity. Castiel, who was there for Dean through everything, had always been his rock in a sea of slime, and had barely asked for anything in return. Castiel, who was remarkably human for an angel, but was so far from it at the same time that it made Dean’s head dizzy.  
  
Castiel, the angel boy that gave Dean hope, had made him believe in himself, in everything again.  
  
Cas had shaped Dean into something that resembles a man, had given him the possibility of feeling emotion when he sworn it all off, because empathy meant opening the gate to remembering, and that was something Dean hadn’t been willing to do. But Cas had pushed and hadn’t given up and somewhere along the line of teaching Castiel the ropes of being human, Dean learned more than he taught.  
  
He presses his face into the harsh outer shell of cotton and polyester, breathes in the scent of seaweed and what probably is fish feces, and a scent that is so very Castiel that it almost dissipates all of the pain that Dean’s gone through. Dean buries his face into the fabric and breathes, a slow two-three-four; he loses himself in what had once been a joke to him, but now is everything he could ever possibly need. He cries and doesn’t lift his head for what seems like an insignificant amount of time, because no amount of time will bring Castiel back.  
  
Nothing will bring Castiel back, not the dirty trench coat that Dean’s currently leaving tear stains on, not the ghost of a mark that was once burnt into Dean’s shoulder. They feel heavy on his heart and Dean doesn’t even try to push them away, because in a time of utter weakness, Dean tries to find the will to have strength, too.

  
In the way that they’re phantoms of Castiel, they’re real enough for Dean to pretend, in the quiet moments when he’s alone, or when he’s with Sammy out on a job, it’s enough and that’s all Dean needs.  
  
Dean’s always ever needed just the wrong side of enough, no matter how ill-guided that notion happens to be. It’s easy to fabricate that Cas is beneath the trench coat that’s he crying into, that Castiel hand brands hot and warm on his skin.

  
So he does.

If he’s honest with himself–he rarely ever is–he might be able to admit that Cas is what he needs too, that between getting pulled out of hell and being strung along jobs with the angel-that’s-not-quite-not-human they became co-dependent on each other and thrived the most when the other was close. But because he’s not, because he has never been good at admitting his true feelings, he dances in the shadows of cheap booze and mindless recklessness.  
  
It’s safe, and easy, and Dean’s never known something to be so safe before this, so he jumps inside and huddles close.  
  


*

  
It happens first on a Thursday.  
  
It happens everyday.


End file.
